


highlight

by soldierly



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-03
Updated: 2011-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soldierly/pseuds/soldierly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set just before Thor crashes SHIELD's plastic-wrapped party. Coulson forgets to eat and Clint convinces the mess hall to make bacon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	highlight

"You've been up too long."

Clint drops down to sit on the arm of Coulson's chair, the sleek black lines of his armguards just enough to disrupt the endless white around them; he's just come in from target practice. Coulson makes a noise, something that might be agreement, but his eyes are still fixed on the monitor, and they stay there until Clint tugs on his tie. Correction, until the _third_ time Clint tugs on his tie. "Seriously, Phil."

"I've got work to do," Coulson sighs, but he's looking at Clint now, and he _does_ look tired, older than he should. Clint doesn't know how long he's been going; knowing him, nonstop since they were called here. Clint has things of his own to handle, but Coulson's running the operation (on orders from Fury, sure, but Fury's off handling Stark, which is a job and a half) and he's visibly dragging.

"Yeah, but you're gonna eat first. And sleep." Clint flicks the monitor off and leaves his palm there to prevent a reboot, ignoring Coulson's disgruntled groan. "I don't know a whole lot about this sciencey stuff, but I don't _think_ recorded energy readings have an expiration date. Sir," he adds, flippant.

Coulson eyes him. "Technically, I could – "

"What, court-martial me? Tattle to Fury? Blah blah." Clint slips off his chair and tugs at one of his sleeves. "Come on. I hear someone managed to convince the mess to make bacon."

"Someone."

"Yeah." A grin. "Someone." He goes to step out the door, but Coulson stops him with two fingers pressed to the back of his neck. Clint instantly goes loose, his shoulders relaxing, and Coulson slides his fingers up, rubbing into his hair. Coulson catches the stuttered, hot slide of Clint's eyes, knows exactly what he wants and how he wants it. Low, strained, as if to punctuate his thoughts: "Phil…"

"Be good," Coulson murmurs. Clint mutters something indistinct. "What?"

"Nothing, sir," Clint says sweetly. Coulson brackets his neck with his hand, squeezes enough to remind, and Clint breathes a moan, tips back into him. "I thought you were tired."

"And hungry."

"And hungry, yeah."

Coulson releases him, nudges him out into the corridor. "Be good," he says again, stifles a yawn despite himself. Clint's expression shifts, something smug in his eyes, and Coulson lets him drift close as they head for the mess.

"You know, being good is overrated," Clint feels the need to point out. Coulson fingers the smooth curve of his gun, takes imperceptible satisfaction when Clint swallows hard. "Bacon later, sex now?"

"No, bacon now. Nice try, smartass."


End file.
